DALI TRIAGE
ALM No.66, July 2024
POETRY
Dali Triage
Crew members issue Mayday calls
restless figures on the starboard bow
grit teeth as the 95,000-ton vessel
plows into the Francis Scott Key
bridge, shakes the sleeping spirit
of Edgar Allan Poe whose epitaph
hic tandem felicis appears out-of-step
with construction worker casualties
found dead, alive with a half dozen
missing but hardly happy to pass on
or thrilled at living-death prospects
where paparazzi follow them
cameras flashing and questions probing
as media mongers inquire how it feels
to be among the lucky ones who escaped
the grim reaper’s grasp, only to tape over
heartfelt testimonies expressing guilt and shame
when newer disasters take center stage,
replacing factual stories and collapsed bridge interest
with fringe figure conspiracy theorists spreading
rumors that the Dali came under cyberattacks,
Covid-era lockdowns fueled repressed,
bad behavior, and wide-opened borders
encouraged the terrorist act, leaving real time
victims’ to suffer, grieve and persevere
in shadowlands beyond Poe’s House of Usher.
Incisor Façade
I place Aeolian harps in wide open windows
where winds blow across strings, vibrating, singing.
Flowing white trumpets emerge outside
filling gardens, valleys, fields and hilltops.
Like easter lilies pushing through fertile loam
ideals either blossom or drop like ivory petals.
I ascend a mountain
feet crunching twigs
listen to magic notes
self-conscious, aware
of my damaged veneer.
Swagger trails behind me tempered by possibilities
evolving, flourishing day after day, year after year.
Crater filled, security enhanced via my mouth prosthetic
cloaks apprehension and brief serenity escapes half-smiles.
Missing tooth redemption negates taunting crucifixions
roll stones from social sepulchers, resurrection via artifice.
Sans Sanctimonious
Marmalade lipstick sustained
heartfelt imprints on each
side of a confessional
like watermarks on lattice
they etched spiritual reminders
that bridged a penitent chasm
to honest, candid self-expression
as silent as a swan’s mating ritual
as nonjudgmental and holy as Christ’s
kiss on the Grand Inquisitor’s cheek.
Continental Trek
Slugging wine from a clay bottle
Byzantium map in my hip pocket
imagination ran as wild as
as the charioteer of Delphi
restraining bravado in the face
of victory, embracing humility
on the heels of upbeat misfortune
or the negative prospect of a windfall.
Shoestring traveling, entranced by European
walkabout sights, I spent nights in hostels
resembling glorified stables, frequented taverns
hooking up with glamorous, alluring misfits
once sunlight set dawn’s early chorus
in motion, filled hills and dales with morning
songs, invited tourists to take-in museums,
absorb local color, traverse experiential causeways.
Isopod Runaways
Oak
leaf
carpets
twigs and grass
clippings covered mud
puddles, concealed loose bricks along
walkways where pill bugs congregated, bred, hid and fed.
We’d seek them out on summer days,
allowed fourteen leg
sets to cross
sweaty
young
palms,
curl
hard
armored
bodies in
balls—roly polys
we shot like crustacean marbles.
My bro collected twenty as pets to excuse him
from cat-box detail; they escaped
coiled in crevices—
no moisture
decay—
and
died.
An award-winning author, poet, and emeritus English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including Anti-heroin Chic, The Galway Review, Gleam, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, and Verse-Virtual. Warner’s poetry/fiction collections include Rags & Feathers, Without Wheels, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas: Poems (2024), and Masques: Flash fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys boating and fishing in Washington State.